Painted Red
by quoth-the-pigeon
Summary: "This was bad. They had been both returning from a failed mission and now they had been ambushed. The ten men accompanying them had been all shot down within a minute by the enemy soldiers hiding in the brush." FrUK
1. Chapter 1

_Hello all! Once again I hope you are all healthy and well. Summer is off to it's slow start up here in the North, and believe me when I say I am taking every second the sun can offer. Here is my latest story! As stated in my profile, I wrote this when I was thinking about taking a trip to Canada. Why Canada (the country, not Hetalia) made me think of this I will never know. However, I hope you will enjoy this little story (it will only be two parts). I guess the warning here is **lots of violence**. So if you might be thinking it's anything like Letters to You...it's not. Anyway, enjoy the read._

__Chris_

* * *

**Painted Red**

**Part One**

Arthur was panting hard, and the branches slicing against his skin wasn't helping any as he darted around the trunk of a pine and fired two shots. A disgruntled cry filled the air and then fell silent. All he could hear was his own gasps for air and the beating of his racing heart as he stilled and tried to hear the soldiers chasing after him. Daring to look after two full minutes of nothing, he slowly peaked around the rough bark. It splintered as a bullet crashed into it and he pulled back, staring up into the canopy of green needles and beige boughs.

There was a crash to the right and he whipped his head over, gun aiming to the onslaught of noise while still being hidden in the dark shadows. He relaxed slightly as he saw Francis crouching down behind another adjacent tree, eyes fixed on the clearing they had just left. Their eyes met for a moment and France gave him a grim nod, smile vacant from the usually flirtatious face. He stood up slowly and dragged out his gun while returning his stare to the clearing.

This was bad. They had been both returning from a mission and now they had been ambushed. The ten men accompanying them had been all shot down within a minute by the enemy soldiers hiding in the brush. England at first had been caught and had only gotten away when the sole American in their group had shot the man holding him and led both nations to the safety of the thick woods. He had managed to take a few more soldiers down before being shot between the eyes as he valiantly tried to protect the two of them. Now he and France were alone in enemy territory– with an enemy that knew exactly what they were too.

England dabbed at his brow, hand coming away slick with blood that wasn't his own. He glanced at it momentarily, thinking of the men…no, they were boys in his eyes– that had been shot down without remorse. The shot of another bullet hitting the tree brought him out of his daze and Arthur looked over to Francis to motion they needed to move on. The Frenchman nodded, after firing a shot that was met with a scream, and they moved on the silent count to three.

This was bad. This was so bad. Not only were they ambushed by the enemy, the 'Patrickites' as they called themselves, but they had been ambushed by the leader– the same man who had started this whole gruesome war and the same man they had been trying to kill on their failed mission.

Arthur dived into a bush as bullets screamed by, one nicking his shoulder and spinning him slightly. He cursed silently and began to wedge himself farther into the growth, trying to get away from the men pursuing him without using his precious ammunition. The woods thundered with footfalls as they rushed past him, not stopping once despite England lying so close he could see his reflection off the gleam of their black boots. He lay in wait, crouching to resume his escape from the heavily armed soldiers.

He hated them so much because they had taken their boys away from them. Their precious Alfred and Matthew. The Patrickite leader, Claudius Reed had brewed up a group, which was really a terrorist sect in America years ago after spewing words like 'freedom', 'patriots', 'change', and 'faith' to an agitated populace who had been fed up with the government. Not five years later of overthrowing the government and becoming 'Fist Citizen', he had launched his cry to the conversion to Patrickism (a false homage to Patrick Henry) to the world and had started the third World War. Arthur didn't know if Alfred was alive, though he knew he was captive.

And then the bastard had gone after Matthew and had taken him before he or Francis could rally a war cry. One nuclear bomb to Toronto and the game was done. Francis had gone over with his president to plead to the crazed dictator and had seen their son bruised and chained. These thoughts boiling in his mind gave England the energy to continue shuffling through the brush as he searched for Francis and any other soldiers coming his way.

He thanked his years of war experience as he trailed silently behind the soldiers, and then began to climb up one of the trees when they were far enough away. Those who conquered never bother to look up. He was halfway up the tree and in the lower branches when the gunfire resumed and a scream filled the evening air. Stilling and hoping it wasn't France, England managed to see the soldiers take cover behind the trees and volley their shots.

Wrapping his legs around the thick branch, Arthur took aim with his gun as he tried to dispose of the enemy group. There were a few of them. That wasn't too bad since they had taken out three already. Arthur rested against the long limb, taking a stilling breath though his nose and exhaled gently. Bark rubbed roughly against his arms despite the jacket he wore and he fired the gun.

Bull's-eye.

One soldier fell dead to the ground, the purple flower of blood pouring from his head. Two other soldiers faced towards him, searching for the cause of death, but their eyes were on the ground. With a grim smile, England aimed again. The next soldier's head flew back as it met the bullet and he collapsed to the ground.

Arthur was about to take aim once more when a yell came from the other side of the forest and they began to move away to more heavy brush.

Damn it, Francis.

He slid down the trunk, holding the gun between his teeth and hands intermittently as he flew to the ground, trying to get to Francis in time. He was about to run towards the heavy brush the soldiers had rushed to when a rock crashed into his shoulder. Spinning around with the gun aimed and safety off, England turned around to see Francis hidden behind a tree. He sighed and darted over to his friend.

"Hurt?" Francis asked between short pants.

England shook his head and darted a glance into the woods. "We need to get going," he hissed. He waited for France's nod and began to run through the brush, watching for any sign of their enemy.

France and England stayed at that pace for a good five minutes before slowing down and walking tentatively over the dead leaves and rocks. Every glance was switched between the sky and the quickly darkening forest. The light was fading soon and the shadows were longer and thicker with night. Arthur finally risked a glance to his companion and partner, brows furrowing. He looked pale and tired, but at least the cold angry fire was still there. "Are you alright?" he finally asked as he went back to looking between the trees for the rust colored uniforms of the enemy.

"We are not out of the woods yet_, Angleterre_. When we get to our lines I will feel much better." Worn blue eyes met his for less then a second.

A crack of a stick being stepped on sent both men swiveling around and firing. A soldier fell down dead, surprise in his eyes as his grip slackened on the rifle he carried.

"Scout." Arthur said the word like a swear and began to run desperately from the small clearing they had been passing though to the dense trees. Francis ran along side him and they made the clearing just as another bullet flew by their bodies. Retuning fire, Arthur ducked back under the tree to pull the clip out and load his last one. He gave a nod as the gun clicked and they returned fire into the clearing. With a peak, England glanced out only to see the solitary soldier standing lob something towards them. A shot brought him down, but the grenade had already been launched.

"Run!" Arthur screamed in warning to Francis, pulling at his arm and they both went running. It exploded not far behind him and the blast sent him flying into heavy brush. He was coughing and swearing as he wiped away the blood in his eyes from a shallow cut from the splintered trees. England then rolled over, eyes meeting dark velvet blue skies and then to the dusty red earth. Francis was not next to him.

England forced himself up, ignoring the vertigo. "Francis!"

There was no reply.

With a stumble, Arthur looked for the golden haired Frenchman, ignoring the stabs of pain in his ankle that cried of a sprain. He ducked around the trees and finally caught sight of the dark blue military jacket he wore. With a curse, Arthur rushed over to him. Francis was still, but he was breathing. The blast had sent him in the path of a tree and Arthur looked for injuries. He was unconscious–that was obvious. There were several cuts along his face and arms, one chunk of wood embedded in his shoulder– though it was only shallow. Feeling along France's ribs, Arthur could already detect one rib that was broken. The air was still, but already England could hear the shouts as the soldiers grew near.

With shifting eyes, Arthur ripped the wood out and wrapped a handkerchief around it to staunch the bleeding. He glanced down at Francis and then towards the clearing where the dust was only starting to settle. He couldn't carry him, not with a sprained ankle and Arthur didn't know what else was broken. He glanced back with burning eyes to the clearing, green eyes gauging the distance the enemy had to go. Pulling France's unresponsive body gently out of sight, he then pulled the other's hand up to his lips fiercely.

"I'll be back. Don't get caught."

England let the hand fall and turned to face the enemy charging towards them, hoping that by using his body he would bait them away from France. He tore through the dust to the clearing and the unknown beyond.

* * *

France woke up alone, and in a war– that was never good. He struggled to sit up, stifling his curses as his chest roared in pain. He grunted, forcing himself to woozily get up. Two seconds after standing and he fell to his knees. Holding onto the rough bark of the pine tree, Francis looked about for Arthur. There was the vague memory of hearing 'I'll be back…' when he had first begun to awaken and the sight of Arthur's back disappearing in the cloud of dust, but that was all. Francis held his shoulder and looked to see England's handkerchief around it, the dingy white greedily soaking up red.

Suddenly a thought came to mind. "He did not." Francis growled, forcing himself to stand. That idiotic _rosbif_ had _not_ gone to face the enemy himself. Nearly yelling in rage, France began to stalk to the clearing they had left, one hand on the gun and the other over his ribs. Normally light blue eyes were dark with venom. _Angleterre_ had better not be hurt, because he was going to kill him himself for being so foolish.

* * *

The first soldier England came upon shot at him first, but Arthur managed to get him in the chest. He continued to sprint by, biting his tongue against the soreness in his ankle. After that, the soldiers filling in around him had screamed at each other to get him and chased him through the brush…at least until he had crashed into one of the soldiers and flailed onto the dusty ground. He had kicked the man in the face and tried to get away, but one of the soldiers chasing him grabbed his leg while another kicked his ribs. He swore, then rolled over and lashed out. The swing of his leg caught one of the men in surprise and they backed away.

Arthur began to claw his way up, letting out a growl as his legs were caught again. Sharply with a kick, Arthur brought his gun up and fired. It missed and only grazed one of the burlier men. Another soldier tackled the gun out of England's hand by slamming his hand to the rocky ground. Arthur swore as the gun clattered away and punched the soldier on top of him.

The soldier punched back, grey eyes dark with anger. Arthur spat at him and kneed him, rolling out from under him as the man grunted. Two hands wrapped around Arthur's clothed arm and ripped him from the ground. He swung into the grip and punched again, watching with short satisfaction as the blow knocked out his attacker. It died quickly as he took stock of the four other men standing around him, guns all aimed at his head.

There was no breeze in the air and everything was washed in putrid oranges as the sun finally started it's decent. Arthur was panting but he righted himself to his full height. Green eyes were narrowed furiously as they took in the sight of the man in front of him.

"Claudius Reed." The name felt poisonous even on his tongue. Arthur wiped at the blood welling on his lip slowly.

Reed smiled, which in any other situation might have been considered proud. He pulled his officer's hat off and swiped at the dark black hair underneath. "How kind of you to recognize me. Though, you don't seem to be showing me the proper respect."

"What respect?" Arthur snarled, and quickly gasped as one of the soldier's boots connected to his stomach. His knees bent, but he did not fall. Not in front of this slime would he fall to his knees. England glared at the soldier who had attacked him, but quickly looked back at Reed as he started pacing back and forth.

"Well, you should show respect to your conquerors. After all, we finally have the United Kingdom." Reed laughed at seeing Arthur's face. "Oh yes. I know exactly who you are Kirkland. And now…" Reed paused to pull out his gun. "Now you will bow to me."

Arthur took a deep breath, stilling himself. Finally, he turned his eyes to Reed as he stood up strongly, head tilted up in defiance. "I will never fall to you," he spat angrily, eyes glowing like an inferno in anger.

Reed smiled, dark eyes glinting in amusement. "We'll see about that." He lowered his gun and pulled the trigger.

Arthur cried out as the bullet hit his hip, the raw and sharp pain filling all his senses as he fell to the ground. His leg no longer could support him and England lay sprawled on the ground, any slight movement sending agony ripping though his veins. He panted and clenched his teeth, holding onto his surely shattered hip to stop the bleeding. The next breath came out shuddered and Arthur glared up at Reed.

Reed smiled, circling around his newest victim. Arthur watched him angrily as he came to a stop by his side. "Now, let's try this again. I have conquered you Britain. You are now under my care. You will serve to my interests."

The hot liquid pushing out from under Arthur's fingers was making him feel oddly giddy, despite the raw pain still pulsing from his hip. "Fuck off."

Reed shook his head and then placed his foot to England's hands covering the wounds. He pressed down sharply and everything in the forest was lost to Arthur's scream of pain. Reed finally took a step back as Arthur writhed, eyes wide in the pure lethal pain.

It hurt to breathe, the scream making his voice rough and Arthur clenched his eyes shut as the pressure was relived. At least Francis wouldn't have to go through this. That was the only thought that kept England strong and he opened his eyes again as his pants quickly filled the air. The shuddering of his muscles sent another bolt of pain from his hip though his body.

"Answer?" Reed finally asked again.

"Never." Arthur watched as Reed flicked his hand and the soldier on his right came next to England's battered body. He pulled his leg back for a mighty kick while Arthur shut his eyes in preparation.

The strike never came.

England snapped his eyes open as a shot screamed though the air. The soldier jerked back, falling dead with wide eyes unseeing. Arthur twisted his head as the other two soldiers lifted their guns towards the woods. Reed motioned for them to move to the brush as he simply stood next to Arthur, his own black gun gleaming in the fading light.

Arthur's throat seized as he realized who it had to be, he opened his mouth to yell for France to get away from here, when one of the soldiers fell dead again when a shot was launched. The lone soldier standing yelled something in his native language and shot up recklessly into the tree. A flurry of blue descended and Arthur watched blurrily as Francis leapt at the soldier and knocked him out, taking his gun and aiming it at Reed. Never had he seen France so furious, so full with bloodlust.

"Step away from him."

"No, I don't think I will France." Arthur watched as Reed began to stalk forward, the gun still raised in his hand. Arthur shot out with his hand and gabbed the other's pant leg just in time to send him sprawling into the ground. Francis was on him in a second and the two men were rolling on the ground while England returned to stopping the blood from the bullet wound. His breathing was labored now, and he craned his head to watch Francis.

France pulled his arm back and smashed it into Reeds face simultaneously as Reed kicked the gun from Francis' hand. Reed spat out the blood and brought his gun up, smashing it into Francis' wounded shoulder and rolled out from under him as the other stiffened.

Reed finally got up, glaring at France. "If you move, I'll shoot England through the heart."

Francis stilled, the red dirt covering him from head to toe, and he watched warily as Reed stayed close by Arthur.

Arthur was watching Francis carefully, hoping he didn't have a stupid move. He was hunched slightly and England thought worriedly of his broken rib. Green eyes shot up to Reed as his footsteps grew louder.

Reed walked closer, wiping away the dirt and blood from his mouth. When he grinned it was bloody. "Oh yes. I know all about you two." He spat the words with venom. Francis stayed tense, ready to lunge at the man as soon as he took a step away from Arthur. "You fucking freaks." His eyes were dark as he stared at Francis evenly. Below Arthur panted between clenched teeth, his eyes full of malice. Reed's lips curled into a snarl. "I know all about you. How else could we have waged war so quickly? Take the freak, take the nation…isn't that true?" He paused and swung his gun away from Francis to Arthur while taking a step closer and crouched down to the Island nation's level. "You know, I went to Oxford. Most revealing part of my life…I may never have gotten to this point if I hadn't gone there." He tilted his head and nudged Arthur with the muzzle of the gun. "So I have a bit of a tie to you, Alma Mater and all that. Who knew you'd be so damn weak."

Arthur snarled angrily, a feral look on his face as he glared at their attacker. "A mistake, if ever there was one." His words were labored but the fighting edge still there. His hands clenched over his wounds. "So what, going to shoot me right now?"

"Yes actually." He smiled calmly and stood up. "I know you two are too weak. The bombs, the chemical blasts…you aren't immortal." He paused and then moved the gun to Francis who had been walking closer. "If I shoot you now, you'll die. That little Lichtenstein girl proved that."

"You bastard." Francis growled, but stilled as he saw the trigger pull back by a hair.

"_O Brittania, meum pater et magister eras_. " Reed smiled and moved the gun to sit directly on Arthur's brow. "I'll let you choose. You or the Frenchman. Who lives? I'll let you play god one last time. Britain or France. Who survives?"

Arthur stared at him.

Francis swore. "Don't you dare _Angleterre_!"

"Shut up, or I kill you both."

Francis pleaded with his eyes. _Don't do it! Don't!_ Francis wouldn't let him just sacrifice himself like that. He took another step, but Arthur's green eyes burned in warning. He stopped, trapped by the burning eyes.

Arthur shut his eyes finally, letting air snake between clenched teeth as he clenched at his wounded and bloody hip tightly. "France. Francis lives."

"Farewell mighty Britain." Reed pulled the trigger.

* * *

Oh god, there must be something wrong with me. Well, if you liked it- say so in a review! :) If not ( because, please– I am awful at writing action {which is why I am practicing!}) then also say so in a review and give me some pointers so I can get better. Part two will come out soon...as soon as I figure out how I want it to end.

Notes:

_O Brittania, meum pater et magister eras- Oh Britain, you were my father and teacher. _(Look, four years of Latin finally came in use!)

* Also, if your name is Claudius Reed, I am very sorry for making the name evil.


	2. Chapter 2

I am amazing for getting this out in less then a day. You all sort of shocked me with your lovely reviews, I was so happy with them that I got this done as quickly as I could. So here is part two, I hope you enjoy it and I hope it makes sense.

_Chris

* * *

There is a moment in everyone's life when you know death is coming. For Arthur, it was the click of the gun and realizing that pure metal was about to lodge into his brain and end all coherent thought forever. The click was pure and hollow sounding and Arthur opened his eyes when no horrible pain bloomed though his skull. There was a second click and the Briton's eyes focused on Reed as he stared at his gun.

There was a sudden whoosh and a dark blue mass crashed Reed away from Arthur's body. The useless gun had also been knocked from the dictator's grasp and it landed heavily of Arthur's stomach. He twisted with a grunt, holding back a cry as his hip screamed and wailed in the sharp pain

Francis and Reed were wrestling in the dirt once more, the Frenchman having clawed at Reed's face and making him bleed. The soldier quickly shoved France off with a sharp kick to the chest, one that made the blonde gasp and give a short cry before gritting his teeth and launching at Reed once again. The dark haired man was going after Arthur's discarded gun. Francis pulled the man away and punched his face again. It was obvious even to England that he was quickly loosing strength.

Arthur was lying on the ground uselessly, he couldn't even try to move with his hip and the bullet wound still gushing out the precious blood that pumped through his veins. Maybe he'd survive Reed, but that didn't mean he couldn't die from blood loss. He only thanked it hadn't severed his femoral artery and had struck the bone instead. A cry filled the air and Arthur could have slapped himself. He was already wondering himself into a dangerous daze. He must have lost more blood then he had realized.

Green eyes slid to Francis, fear filling him at the sight. Reed was straddling Francis, both gloved hands wrapped around the other's windpipe. Francis was between trying to choke the other man, but his arms were too short in the angle, and trying to pry the wicked hands away.

Nothing was more painful then moving, but the thought of Reed killing France was too much. England forced his torso to move, the pain causing him to bite though his lip as he tried to keep in the cry of pain. He grabbed the heavy gun in his lap, unsteadily aiming for reed's head. He let the gun go, watching as it arced and smacked the man in the head. Arthur fell to the ground again as his strength gave out. Perspiration rolled down his face and his body shook viciously from the endeavor.

Reed's head snapped over to England as the metal struck his face, a snarl ripping from his throat. Francis watched angrily as the other man turned his eyes back to Arthur, nearly ignoring the man convulsing beneath him. His hand flailed as he tried to get away, his vision going dark and suddenly Francis' hand brushed the gun lying nearby. He stretched for it, finger once again straining for it. The gun jostled slightly towards him and he begged God to allow him to reach it.

"Don't be so ready to meet your maker Britain. I have many plans for you yet." Reed's eyes were wiled and several strands of his dark glossy hair had become frazzled. "You will be mine," he spat.

"_Non_," Francis wheezed beneath him. Reed looked down to see in surprise the muzzle of the gun. A shot was fired and Reed's dead body toppled to the side. Francis pulled himself from under the corpse and rubbed at his neck. "_Angleterre_ belongs to no one." He choked out softly to the dead body.

He fell to the ground, head flopping to the dusty red ground and watched as the final rays of light were soaked up into the night. He gasped for air quietly, no will to move as he stared at the quickly dimming sky. A single star could already be seen hanging alone in the barren expanse of sky.

A quiet groan from Arthur nearby sent Francis' drooping eyelids wide open as he remembered the injured man. He scrambled over to him, breathing heavy and groaned at seeing the dark stain welling through his clothes and into the ground.

Arthur opened his eyes at hearing the noise next to him, though they were unfocused and clouded from the pain. "Reed?" he asked. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it.

"Dead." France's voice was rough, but quickly began to raise the façade of strength. He ripped his jacket off, folding it haphazardly and pressing it against Arthur's hip despite the cries of protest. "I have to stop the bleeding," he whispered gently, stroking Arthur's side quietly and then brushing away a lock of matted hair that had fallen into the other's eye.

Arthur clenched his teeth at the pressure. His pants were short and labored, but it was better to know Francis was next to him. He shut his eyes, breathing through his nose as he tried to still his rapid heart.

"No! I won't loose you. I didn't loose you in Vienna and I'm not loosing you here."

Arthur didn't open his eyes, but he smiled. "I'm not dying, you bloody idiot. Like I'd die after we won the war. We still have to get the boys back."

France looked down at the haggard face, a look between relief and fear vacillating though his own features. "Non. We cannot rest until we find them."

Arthur finally looked up the night sky. It probably wasn't good that he was slowly becoming numb. "Well, as you can see I can't move France." The words held nothing but the harsh truth and Arthur could have laughed.

"Neither can I Arthur." France fell silent and toppled to the ground.

Arthur craned his head to look at Francis, seeing finally in the dim light the slow trickle of blood falling from the corner of his mouth. "Wha-"

"Reed's kick. It made the broken rib puncture my lung." Arthur could hear the wet rattling in his breath now as Francis lay so close to him.

"So we're going to die here together?"

"It seems so, _Angleterre_."

Arthur turned away from Francis and looked at the first night star. "Well, that bloody sucks."

Francis' laugh carried lazily though the dark night air. "_Oui_. It does."

They both fell to silence; the presence of their wounds too much for anything other then slow mumbled words. After minutes of sitting alone Arthur shut his eyes. "I love you, you know."

"I know." The words were so weak and quiet; Arthur couldn't believe that Francis was only a hair's breadth away. There was a pause and then, "You better not die first _mon lapin_."

"Mm. But I got shot first."

"But I hurt my lungs."

Arthur sighed. The coat was drenched now with his blood and it was already cooling from the night air. He took a bloody hand away from the mess that was his hip and snaked it into Francis' cold hand. What was the use of trying to stop the inevitable? It surprised Arthur that he was so ready to descend into the unknown beyond of death, especially when he had clawed so far to live through all the hell life had given him. He was old. He was tired. All England wanted to do was fall into the cool clutches of death.

As he shut his eyes, Arthur dreamed he could hear the sound of a helicopter heading towards them.

* * *

Strangely, death was nothing like how he thought it would be. Arthur stared at the ceiling of a slightly grimy tent, shadows moving against the canvas quietly as people outside made their way to do what ever they did when dead. Arthur also noted that he could not feel his legs or lower torso at all, which wasn't all that bad since he had been in agonizing pain from the gunshot wound that had killed him.

The other strange thing about death was the fact that his son was sitting next to him, staring intently with the beautiful violet eyes of his. "Arthur?" His voice sounded melodic despite the din outside.

England brought his hand up, brushing lightly at the soft corn silk hair of Canada. "Matthew?" he asked in wonder. His hand was quickly clenched by Canada's while the softest of smiles spread over his heavily chapped lips. It seemed he had taken back the habit of biting his lip once more. Arthur smiled back, but his eyes found the dark swollen and raw rings around the other's wrists. "Oh, Matthew, my lad," he said quietly, fingers dipping to touch the quickly forming scar tissue.

Matthew pulled his hands away and down, not allowing him to come into contact with the raw scars. "It's not important." He said in his soft voice.

"Ca-Matthew! Of course it is, what- _who_?" the last syllable was filled with the promise to kill. When Canada only shook his head, Arthur's green eyes took in all the sights of his younger son that he never thought he wound see again. Like the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he laughed, the slight bounce in his hair when he was confused or the way his eyes and nose crinkled in joy. Arthur let his eyes roam in silence, the urge to touch him and make sure he was real so prominent in his veins, and yet he felt too tired to do anything.

Canada leant forward, enveloping him in a small hug and then pulled back. "The war is over. Reed's dead– as is his terrorist sect. You won."

"Alfred?" England held his breath back, not daring to hope.

Matthew smiled brightly however. "Yeah. He made it. He's here too."

The words seemed to be suddenly choked in Arthur's throat, for he couldn't even get the question out. Matthew seemed to know however and smiled. "Al!" he called, twisting his lithe frame towards the tent flap.

America strode in, his muscular frame taking up the opening as he ducked inside. He walked over proudly with a smile, but England could see the limp in his step and the way his eyes darted as though he feared someone who jump at him. He seemed so thin for his build and Arthur pulled his once colony's hand into his own. Alfred pulled through however and enveloped Arthur's frail body into a fierce hug.

Arthur found himself choking on tears as he held on tightly. He had thought for sure Alfred had died, and yet here he was. The boy he had raised had finally come home to his arms. He nearly wept, but took in a deep calming breath as Alfred pulled away. "Alfred. I hadn't dreamed…"

America's eyes turned dark for a moment, and it was all Arthur needed to confirm they were alive. That was a look of the haunted, not those who were going to haunt. "It was…rough. I'm not…" he paused and gave a smile to his younger brother as Canada placed his hand on his shoulder. Turning the sky blue eyes away for a moment, Alfred finally looked back to England. "I'm glad you're alive. I've missed you."

"I missed you too git." He paused looking around the room. "Where's Francis?"

Both boys fell silent, their grins fading to dust. Alfred looked to Matthew, and the Canadian looked away. A hard lump settled in Arthur's throat. He gave a wordless look to Alfred, but he simply shut his eyes and rolled his head down. "I-I see." The words felt dead and unreal on his tongue.

Arthur shut his eyes as something hot and burning rolled down his face. He wiped it away, only to have two more cascade down in its place. Soon he found the tears wouldn't stop and he moved his hand to stop a sob from escaping his throat. It became too much however when the boys began to move away, and it finally fell out of his mouth. It was harsh and filled with pain and misery.

"Ah, _mon cheri_… do not cry so."

Arthur snapped his eyes open, staring into the eyes of ocean blue that he had thought were dead. "Fr-Francis?" he asked in disbelief.

"_Oui_." Francis pulled closer, sitting on the bed and removing Arthur's tears with a handkerchief.

"Francis!" Arthur cried, holding onto him tightly and keeping his arms around the other's frame. He ten pulled away and smacked him squarely across the face. "You bastard! How dare you make me think you were dead!" Arthur's voice croaked; taking away from the effect of pure rage he had been aiming for.

Francis rubbed at the red skin. "Sorry, I couldn't help it."

"You bloody well can, and you fucking will next time!" Arthur snapped, settling back into the pillows of the bed. His eyes quickly softened once more. "What happened?"

The boys were standing in the corner of the tent and Matthew opened his mouth. "A patrol picked you up just in time. They saw Reed's dead body and told the others at camp. Ludwig made a group with Ivan to rescue me and brought me here. Alfred we got two weeks after when a revolt was made by the citizens who killed the top leaders of the Patrickites. The war was kind of over then." He stopped and looked to France.

The Frenchman nodded and turned his perfect blue eyes to Arthur's green. "The rib did puncture my lung and I was in quite the critical care for a while. However, I was able to be up and running when Alfred and Matthew arrived here. You however, _mon lapin_, have been unconscious for a month and a half"

Arthur stared at him, looking for a sign of a joke. "What?"

"Most of it was drug induced, surgery for your hip and all that. The rest was kind of a mini coma from the concussion you got." Alfred added quietly. England looked at him sharply, not used to hearing him so subdued.

No one thought you would make it, Angleterre." Francis whispered and pulled the bedridden man's hand into his own. "They feared memory loss or brain damage."

Arthur looked between the three faces, and then down to his hand where France was quietly stroking it. "Then…what the hell way that…a test?"

"Eh, yeah. Sort of." Alfred rubbed the back of his neck and gave an apologetic smile. "Wanted to make sure good ol' Arthur was still with us."

"Yes…well, you can rest assured. I am fine now."

"I'm glad, Arthur. I don't think I would handle you dying very well." France looked up and Arthur could see the countless nights crying in the red rims of his beloved's eyes. He reached up and touched his stubble cheek.

"Can't get rid of me that easily."

Francis brought England's hand up to his lips, giving a kiss to his knuckles. "You came back."

"I promised you, didn't I? If you're around, I'll be here."

"I'll keep you to your word." Francis kissed his hand again with a smile.

* * *

So there you go. A happy ending because even though I was going to have this actually be purgatory...I decided no– that is too evil. So here is the final part. I hope you had fun reading the short little story.

Thank you for reading and your wondrous reviews.


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